


The Saints We See

by geordielover



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season 8 Spoilers, Shmoop, post-Purgatory reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:57:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geordielover/pseuds/geordielover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hasn’t moved because something impossible and large is building in his chest, something that feels terrible and like hope. The blood on his face and neck and the searing pain in his eyes and ears are easy to ignore in favor of the feeling singing in his blood. The light spinning circles mere feet away from his is familiar and known, calling out to the piece of itself that was embedded in Dean’s soul when he was pulled from hell. </p><p>The name sticks in his throat, unwilling to see the light of day until he knows for sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saints We See

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on my tumblr (sourwolph) in reaction to Misha's recent comments about Destiel.

Imagine, if you will:

Dean and Sam are holed up in another shitty motel room with garishly colored décor and stiff bed sheets of questionable repute, and they’re sitting back and letting their bodies rest after a round with one of Crowley’s minions. They’d ganked the bastard, sure, but not before he’d gotten in a few solid parting shots. 

Sam’s sitting at the small, shaky desk and is tapping away at his computer, searching for any hints that could lead them to Kevin. Dean’s stretched out on one of the beds, nursing a still-full bottle of beer that’s long gone warm against his palms, and he’s staring at the TV with the sort of mindless look that usually comes with the damn thing actually being on. Sam casts worried glances in his direction every few minutes, mouth pursed and eyes limpid with concern for his brother.

Suddenly, the TV flickers on without either of them having touched the remote. The lights dim briefly and then flare too bright, a few bulbs shattering in place. Sam’s laptop begins whirring loudly, his iTunes sifting quickly through music and only sparing each song a few seconds of play. It’s all the warning they get before the horrible whine builds in the air around them. Sam groans loudly and claps his hands over his ears, looking immediately to Dean in his panic.

But Dean isn’t afraid. 

Dean isn’t even covering his ears. His eyes look bright and alive, watering with pain as blood trickles from his ears. The bottle of beer slips out of his grasp as he stands, and froths against the already stained carpeting and is paid no mind. 

Sam calls out his name, gritting his teeth against the impossible noise that’s liquefying his brain, but Dean’s eyes are fixed on a spot by the end of his bed where a small pinprick of light has begun to pulse bright and hot and blinding. It’s sending out wavelengths of heat, prickling all along Sam’s skin and crashing against his nerves. He hunches in on himself, the pain unbearable, and yells out for his brother again.

But Dean still hasn’t moved. 

Dean hasn’t moved because something impossible and large is building in his chest, something that feels terrible and like hope. The blood on his face and neck and the searing pain in his eyes and ears are easy to ignore in favor of the feeling singing in his blood. The light spinning circles mere feet away from his is familiar and known, calling out to the piece of itself that was embedded in Dean’s soul when he was pulled from hell. 

The name sticks in his throat, unwilling to see the light of day until he knows for sure. 

The bright orb pulls in on itself abruptly, the noise and heat stopping for a split second. It’s long enough for Dean to shout for Sam to shut his eyes before he ducks his head down to his chest and winds his hands over his head in protection. There’s a low hum of energy before the trembling light source explodes, blasting the both of them backwards and smashing every pane of glass in the room. 

It’s nearly unbearable for the few seconds it persists, and then an eerie calm settles into the room again as the screaming wind dies and the searing white disappears. Dean opens his eyes and looks up, small pieces of glass falling out of his hair, and he feels the strength leaving his body even as he stands slowly. 

His heart pounds violently in his chest, because Cas is standing at the foot of his bed. He’s disheveled and dirty and still sporting that ragged beard, and he’s looking around the room like he doesn’t understand how he got there which is probably a fair shout.

Dean swallows, and lets loose the word he’d kept secret in his throat. “Cas?”

Large blue eyes snap to Dean’s face, looking startled and Cas doesn’t say a word in response because his knees are too busy buckling beneath him. 

Dean rushes forward and grabs the angel around the waist, supporting his weight and leading him to sit on the edge of the bed. He pushes roughly at the tattered trenchcoat still cupping Castiel’s shoulders until the dirty coat is off and Dean is kneeling in between Cas’ open legs. 

“Cas?!” Sam says in the background, but he goes largely ignored because the other two in the room are paying him no mind. 

Dean sweeps rough thumbs over the curves of Castiel’s cheeks, hands spanning the width of his jaw and catching on the rough hairs and he’s breathing so hard it feels like his lungs are going to collapse and something in him that’s been lying dead and heavy in his chest since he lost grip on Cas’ hand, comes back to life with a shudder.

Tears bite at Dean’s eyes and he smiles up at Cas, relieved to see him back by his side. 

Cas doesn’t say much, his voice reedy and thin like he’s in shock, and after ten minutes of answering Sam’s barrage of questions he’s clearly on the verge of collapsing. Dean, who’s been cleaning off Castiel’s dirty face with a washcloth (despite the blood still crusting over against his own skin), levels Sam with a glare and tells him to back off. Sam sits heavily down on his own bed and just watches as Dean gently pushes Castiel onto the bed and pulls the terrible bedsheets around his shoulders, looking for all the world like he’s handling something precious and breakable and not an ethereal heavenly being who was around when the first forms crawled the earth.

Sam eventually goes back to his laptop, disbelief preventing any real progress in his research, and between his inane Google searches he looks over at Dean and Cas but quickly averts his gaze, because the way Dean is treating the exhausted angel is something Sam doesn’t feel like he’s privy to. 

The next morning, when the sun has started to peek through the destroyed window and Sam’s phone buzzes with his alarm, he rolls out of bed and runs a hand through his hair. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and looks over at the other bed, pausing when he sees the way Dean’s curled protectively around Cas’ body. He’s still on top of the covers while Cas is under the thin quilt, but their bodies are unmistakably slotted together. 

Sam can’t remember the last time he saw Dean sleep so peacefully, and he’s never seen Castiel sleep at all. He reaches out a tentative hand to gently shake them awake, but before he can make contact with Cas’ grimy shoulder, his wrist is caught in a vice grip and Dean’s wide awake eyes are boring into him.

“Don’t, Sammy,” is all he says, voice still gruff and low with sleep, and Sam just nods and steps back and lets Dean slowly bring the angel back to the land of the living. 

It keeps happening, too. Dean and Cas falling asleep together on shitty motel beds, Dean protectively curling his hands around Cas’ shoulders, arms, neck, whatever he can reach. He puts Cas in one of his suits, ignoring the protest that the angel gives when he says that he can just create a new one for himself (the way he has with the trenchcoat and his shoes), and just smoothens his hands over the fabric as it sits slightly too large on Castiel’s body. 

He’s protective and fierce in a way that he’s only ever been with Sam, and Castiel may protest all he wants but the way he preens under Dean’s attention is unmistakable. More often than not, people are beginning to assume that Dean and Cas are a couple, and Sam chokes on his coffee when Dean doesn’t correct them and proceeds to look slightly disappointed when Castiel does. 

And it’s not as if this insanely protective streak is one sided, because when they’re hunting down a nest of vampires and Dean is sent flying into the side of a mausoleum and doesn’t get back up, a crack of lightning illuminates the world and Castiel’s wings flare wide and dark like shadows, effectively wiping out any threats in the area. He cradles Dean’s head in his lap in the back of the Impala while Sam drives, and gently inspects his injuries when they’re safely ensconced in the hotel room. His fingers drag and glow against the bruises and cuts and broken bones, healing as they go. 

Whatever Dean and Cas seem to feel for each other, it’s as strong as what Dean feels for Sam and Sam for Dean, but in another way entirely. The three of them fight until their bodies ache and the bad guys are gone, just trying to keep one another alive and well and safe. Castiel protects Dean and protects Sam, and the Winchesters look after their own, and if Dean grips Cas a little too tight or a little too long after a fight, nobody says anything. Sam doesn’t comment when he walks into a room and their faces are brushing, bodies too close to be casual.

Then comes one day when they’re in a fight with some demons, and Sam’s mouth is filled with blood and his ribs are aching, Dean’s nose is crooked and broken and his shoulder popped out of place, and Castiel has been cut and his blood spilt, but finally the very last demon falls with a scream as Dean thrusts Ruby’s knife into its chest. 

They stand there, chests heaving and bodies broken with aches, and Cas hobbles forward to press a hand against each of their foreheads, healing their wounds within a second. When he withdraws his hand from Dean, the hunter grabs at it and pulls, reaching out with his own to cup the back of Cas’ neck and draw him into a hard, brusing kiss. They’re clutching at each other’s faces, clothing, backs, and Sam looks away but isn’t bothered because this has been a long time coming. 

Dean and Cas have been circling one another since that handprint was seared into Dean’s shoulder four years ago, this tumultuous thing between them building and ebbing, bringing them together and pulling them apart but never really separating. 

There are pieces of Castiel’s grace woven into Dean’s soul and bits of Dean’s humanity filling the void they left behind in the angel. Their battle together in Purgatory, their parting and their reunion, may have sealed the bond between them, but the years with this gone unspoken and unacknowledged don’t mean that it is any less true.


End file.
